


sweet like sickness scarred to a laugh

by twentyfivepercent (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drug Addiction, F/F, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/twentyfivepercent
Summary: Sometimes she wants to hate Margaery.





	sweet like sickness scarred to a laugh

**Author's Note:**

> title from Oliver Riot's "Ivory Black"
> 
> yes, i know how bloody muddled the metaphor gets

Sometimes, she wants to hate Margaery.

She wants to hate Margaery for being able to say, “No, I’m done.” and really mean it. She wants to hate Margaery for not succumbing to the pull every time. She wants to hate Margaery for knowing when exactly is her limit. She wants to hate Margaery for having the clarity to whisper in her ear: “I think that’s enough.” She wants to hate Margaery for pulling her home each time the designer drugs show up.

She wants to hate Margaery for lacking the track marks up her arms. She wants to hate Margaery for her steady hands. She wants to hate Margaery every time she sicks into a toilet and Margaery doesn’t. She wants to hate Margaery for how she can smile without her blood pounding in her ears. 

She wants to hate Margaery for having more _alive_ than her. 

She can’t though. Because Margaery has those little pieces she lost so long ago, but she tears herself apart trying to fit those pieces into Sansa’s torn puzzle. 

Maybe it isn’t quite right. Maybe every “No, I’m done” and “That’s enough” was a piece with darker shadings of blue than the lost piece named Robb was. Maybe every boundary was a lighter brown than her father’s hair. And every time those steady hands held up her hair while she outed her stomach, maybe Margaery’s hands did not hold as tightly as her mother’s would have. 

No, Margaery could not fill those aching gaps. She doesn’t know if anything could. (Gods know that she’s tried to fill those blanks in with technicolored chemical pencil.)

But maybe, when the phantom pain wanes, she can vocalize what she knows is true; Margaery could be the corner of a brand new puzzle. She thinks that jigsaw set is already being carved. That the beginnings of the next unfaltering paragraphs of her life are already being penned in: _i love mar--_

But not now. She can’t say it now, else those old wounds would bleed her dry. She’s not mourned enough to set aside her puzzle right now. She’s not complete enough to finish her sentences right now. 

Right now is two in the morning with her temples pulsing and her hand in Margaery’s. Right now is her forehead against Margaery’s car window. Right now, two am handholding now, is the feeling of the scabs starting to form.

**Author's Note:**

> i love them and i'm just a little drunk and sad, forgive me
> 
> tumblr: twentysixthpercent


End file.
